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Mike Igoe
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The informationary-type vitals would run along the lines of spoken word poet, with a canon of 25 masterworks, all gloriously unfinished and fallen woefully shy of their pristine genius phantom selves that appear in my head. Along with my fellow gun-slinging type, Niall O'Brien, and an assortment of other mates, I run the enfant terrible 'Naked Lunch' poetry and music open mic at Carnival, Wexford St., Dublin. My ambitions are of the live screaming variety more so than the literary coffee table abomination variety. Dublin must take her place as poetic capital of the world. This, amongst myriad other lurid fantasies, keep me awake of a night. The rest of my free time is devoted to the prettiest guy in the world and the dogged drunken study of music. I play no instrument but my brain, I have no children that would appreciate public recognition, I live in squalid conditions with a good old-fashioned manifestation of the last gang in town, meta-memes of rolling stone and stockholm syndrome. I have a telephone number, and a desk in a small Irish finance company. I help people live beyond their means. I am growing old gracefully. come see me smoke my dreams.
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